Sposa di Farfalle
by Lumiere de Venise
Summary: Beatrice Ushiromiya has always had dreams of a red-headed prince and his white stallion. (Implied BeatricexBattler. Sad. Angst. Last fic of my summer challenge.)


**Finally, my last fic in my summer challenge. I decided it'll be an Umineko one. It kinda conflicts with the VN canon but for the sake of the fic let's ignore that.**

_**(7/13/20: Part iii to v is a tad canon divergent from how it went in the visual novel/manga btw. Forgot to state that.)**_

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Ƹ̵̡Ӝ̵̨̄Ʒ

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**i.**

SHE'S LIKE A PRINCESS—she is laying on top of a grass filled with daisies and roses and sunflowers and violets, her eyelids shut and her hands folded together, placed between the top and bottom of her brown with a golden-outline dress.

Her golden locks are let loose and sprayed behind her, curving and turning and overlapping as if every single luxurious strand of her hair is one of the many rays of the sun above.

Her beautiful, smooth skin is without a single scratch. She bears deep brown slippers with laces, embarked with tiny golden specks. She is but a still young woman, waiting, begging for something—

_La principessa d'oro aspetta un bacio._

Yes, Beatrice awaits for her prince to take her away. From the beginnings of morrow to the showings of teatime to the endings of crepuscule, the orange-blonde woman awaits for the majestic male.

She awaits for him to ride on top of his white stallion and swoop her up_—she sometimes imagined her future rescuer to bear short red and ruffled hair and grayish-blue eyes—_and ride towards the luminous sunset from far, _far_ away.

She imagined it to be a talkative voyage, him telling her of the seasons that have passed by and the flowers that have grown and the fate of her family and she, with great enthusiasm, telling him about her dreams of being one with the sun and the moon.

It would be amazing. She would also tell him about how she visioned she was the air, traveling around the great blue sky, and how she was also the earth in the fact that she kept herself in the ground and yet blossomed—young and yet old.

_Oh! _She wouldn't forget to tell him about her nocturnal fantasies of being the ocean for maidens to wash themselves in, Beatrice protecting the virgins from lurking eyes, and how Beatrice was also the fire, lighting up the firewood of many homes.

It would be nice, if she could. If she could think of an ending for herself so fine and dandy as she pretends **those** certain hands, calloused and rough and _not at all_ like the soft and perfectly firm hands that helped her unto the white stallion in her fantasies, aren't touching her.

...

She doesn't like _those calloused hands._ _Not at all. _She never has and **never** will.

...

She winces as she feels creepily rough digits lift up one of her loose strands of hair, and she mentally cries as acertain_ indurated and sinister voice _whispers to her, _"You are beautiful as ever, Beatrice Castiglioni," _because why is **that** **man** calling her with the last name of her _mother?_

...Her prince wouldn't ever do these terrible things to her. No, he _never_ would've. Her prince would call her Beatrice without the adding of that _foreign_ last name.

He would've helped her up and clean off the grass on her dress. He wouldn't cause tears and rips on her attire nor would he—as he is a _true_ gentleman—inflict bites down on her lips, purple markings at her neck, and streams of crimson around her thighs.

(Thus, Beatrice fleetly closes her eyes and dreams. _Oh, _how she dreams. She dreams of a world where the hand touching her is soft and young and not at all similar to her skin color and it almost makes her _happier, _for once.)

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**ii.**

She supposed she was a princess, at this point. She still has her long, puffy and brown Victorian dress. Her slippers still fit her feet and her hair is up in a bun, a red rose of many layers to the side of her head.

She has a garden, and the garden is not so far from the ocean. The air around her is calm and liberal and in it travels the smell of daisies and roses and sunflowers and violets.

She grabs her silver spoon and taps it to the small teacup that rested on the white circular-table she was sitting in front of. The little splatter of light brown tea on the head of her spoon, thankfully, doesn't contain black or green residue.

She puts the spoon down and replaces it with the teacup, raising it to her pink lips and taking a sip. It was hot, and it almost feels like it's going to burn as it touches her lips and goes down her throat, but she doesn't mind that.

Beatrice finishes with her tea and places it unto her table. She gets up and walks away from the cage arch that her table and chair was surrounded by, and the blue-eyed woman eyes the sun.

_'If only my prince could ride me to the sun,'_ the blue-eyed beauty thought to herself as she walks near the edge of the cliff surrounding her "perfect little home."

The Kuwadorian is gorgeous from an outside stance, a little bit of the quite old mansion shown through big and tall trees and bushes.

Beyond that, there were bundles of flowers and little lakes, with animals ranging from acorn-in-the-mouth squirrels to curious rabbits here and there. It could be said that it was also gorgeous from the inside, as well.

It wasn't quite spectacular for Beatrice sometimes, though. It was a mansion covered in the blessing of mother nature and yet it seemed Beatrice still had requests not fulfilled.

Where was the chariot that was embroidered in gold and silver? That had, attached to it, six jittery white horses in rows of two? Why is the mansion she is in an achievement and yet feels like a punishment?

This was made worse by the fact that she is here and yet _all_ of her is not—Beatrice can not remember who she was as a child. She cannot remember if she has a family or a calling, but she does remember that she has frequent dreams of a prince.

Speaking of that redheaded man, shouldn't her prince be around by now? Shouldn't those soft hands of his, _warm and affectionate, _be reaching out to hold hers so he can kiss the knuckles of her small hands?

The prince should've not only saved her by now but, by the rules of fairy-tale loves, he and her should've had children who they'd tell the tale of how he and her came to be.

(Seeing as everything else in her "memories" is void and disoriented, it's only fair that her dream comes true, _no?_)

Instead, she is alone and staring into the horizon, shivering because suddenly the air is too cold and without the carrying of a pleasant smell, the grass is prickling at her skinny and pale ankles, the ocean is making her feel nauseous, and her stomach feels as if it's being wrangled by the tea she just consumed.

_Il desiderio di essere come il sole e troppo da chiedere?_

Ah, she shouldn't be too mad, though. The things she expected were silly and only fit in the minds of young and naive little girls and maturing maidens.

Beatrice, who bears a stomach with marks (though she doesn't know of the origin) and an inner-entrance without barriers and gates (she inferred it from the way white lilies wintered from her touch,) does not fit in such a category—

She doubts that the man in her vision, with red hair and bluish-gray eyes, would want to marry someone who can't wear a white dress to their own wedding. He probably would've been so disgusted with Beatrice, he'd leave her to wilt. To suffer alone.

To be left in the cold wind, be entangled by vines, let the ocean's waves drown her inside of her own misery, and would ride on his white stallion away as she's incinerated by the uncontrollable flames sparked by wood from the ominous forests nearby.

Yet, despite all of this knowledge, despite all these wants and visionaries that the seagulls above have always laughed at and disproved of and that she _herself_ has shaken her head at...

The prince still visits her dreams and makes her heart beat and _yearn._

(And so she lets herself be a little silly girl again and stands on the cliff for hours, recalling her dreams of a prince who would help her unto his stallion and who she would tell stories of how she related to all four elements...)

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**iii.**

"You...you're _pretty!"_

Beatrice is stunned. The air around her feels like it has been frozen in time, minus the way the wind stopped at a certain spot in front of the blue-eyes young woman.

She slowly lets her teacup down. The butterflies and birds that were once happily resting unto the circular-table in front of Beatrice, in a mere second, absconded.

The seagulls let out a cry.

_E come se questa fosse una scena di Alice nel paese delle meraviglie._

"Thank you, little girl, but...who _are_ you?"

The girl in front of her is shocked as well but then suddenly smiles and giggles, and Beatrice eyes the girl's hairstyle and outfit and overall demeanor.

The brown bangs and pigtailed hair of the child, though brown, weren't so far from the ginger-blonde shade of tresses of Beatrice. The young girl looked like she could've been a relative of hers.

_(She wouldn't be surprised if it were true.)_

"I..._Sorry,_" the girl said as she took a few steps back and her cheeks heat up, "I didn't mean to...interrupt you..."

Beatrice smiles. "You didn't bother me. I am just having tea. May I ask for your name?"

The girl takes a few steps forward, quietly responding, "Rosa..."

Beatrice's smile widens. Rosa is adorable and sweet and so innocent. One of Beatrice's butterflies fly unto the head of Rosa. The child looks up and is amazed at how the butterfly glows.

"A butterfly that can glimmer true gold? Miss, how did the creature do that? Did..._you_ have something to do with this? Are you a...**witch?**"

Beatrice's eyes widen. _A witch?_ Where did the girl get _that_ idea?

(The checkered-skirt having girl is cute and starts questioning Beatrice about the young woman's Victorian dress and demeanor, though, so Beatrice decides to entertain the little girl.)

So, Beatrice tells the child all about the visions—Beatrice speaks of the way she connects with the elements, of the dreams she has of the prince with red hair and bluish-gray eyes, and how butterflies and seagulls seem to love her.

"...And thus, I sit here, sipping my tea and waiting for the day I can be with my prince," Beatrice says when she finishes her story.

Rosa gleams.

"Amazing," the child says, and before the young girl says anything else, she looks at the watch on her left hand and shrieks. "I'm late for lunch! I'll see you later, Miss..."

Beatrice gives a confused face as the girl gives her one back, and then _that's_ when Beatrice chuckles. It's been so long since she's spoken to another person, Beatrice didn't realize that she asked the girl for her name but didn't return the action.

"My name is Beatrice, and—"

Beatrice pauses, for a few seconds. A butterfly landed unto her left hand.

"What do you mean by _'late for lunch,' _child?" Beatrice asks after composing herself again. Rosa's eyes brighten and the young girl clasps her small, pale little hands together.

"Papa always has everyone arrive back at our main-house around this time. I haven't ate much today, so I'll come back later!"

Beatrice mentally-noted the last five words that came out of the young girl's mouth. What if Rosa forgot to come back? Beatrice will be left alone again and probably for the rest of her life, forced to be in the cage of her garden that restrains her _so._

As much as Beatrice loved her tea and the green grass of the ground and the scenery she can see on the cliff nearby, she yearned for more, _**much** more_ than just a sighting of the ocean and a beautifully-designed white cage, table, and chair.

Beatrice then realizes something else—why not let the child lead her out into the world beyond the Kuwadorian, a world filled with people and checkered-skirts, young children waiting for someone like Beatrice to tell them stories about a red-haired prince?

Beatrice feels as if she could find a new breath of fresh air, eye and coo over new animals and colorful butterflies and pretty flowers, see even bigger rivers and currents and streams, and see bigger flames of fire in the world beyond Kuwadorian's chains and barriers and gates.

_Perhaps then, the prince will finally..._

"Rosa."

Rosa, who was turning away from Beatrice, quickly turned back to the face the older female, responding quickly, "Yes, Miss. Beatrice?"

"I want...to go with you. Please, young Rosa, lead me to the world where I am not just surrounded by the gifts of nature but am instead able to also be with people my age."

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**iv.**

Rosa is a good girl. A cute and innocent and _just so pure_ little girl. Like her name, the child was a little shy at first but, the minute she got comfortable, the child opened up like the blossoming petals of a red rose.

Rosa leads Beatrice away as she promised, and as they began passing by cliffs, Rosa tells her stories of the mansion she lives in, and although Beatrice swears she has never been in Rosa's household, the many rooms and antiques and rows of floral bushes are all so _familiar_ to Beatrice. It's as if Beatrice has spent her times in those master-suite bedrooms Rosa has described.

As if Beatrice has remembered trying on the antique jewelry and eyeing at the antique furniture. As if Beatrice has once been surrounded by flowers the shades of red and orange and yellow. As if Beatrice has spent days and weeks and months and years around these parts of Rosa's beautiful-sounding mansion.

(Rosa's stories of her siblings is the only time Beatrice isn't confusingly "reminiscent," for some unknown reason.)

At one point, Rosa tells Beatrice, "I might be yelled for this, but I'll try to get my papa to adopt you as his wife!" and Beatrice chuckles.

"Certainly if your siblings are much older than you, I am too young for your father, little Rosa," Beatrice says in between unladylike chortles as she watches her each and every step.

Rosa laughs too.

"It's okay, the age difference wouldn't be that bad."

"My, my, you are quite the naive child but good daughter."

"Thank you...I just hope you don't mind the side-effects of my father, Beatrice; he can be a little mean sometimes and—don't tell him I told you this—**his hands are rather calloused, **but he is _quite_ the gentleman, at times!"

Beatrice originally opens her mouth to laugh—

Instead, she stops and her eyes widen. She lets go of Rosa's hands.

"..._Calloused_ hands...?"

Calloused hands. The child's father had **calloused hands.** Those words should mean nothing to Beatrice—at least they shouldn't—but suddenly..._suddenly..._

Suddenly, the memories she once lost are now coming back.

Yes, the once lost memories are coming back. Years ago, her once pure and angelic body was corrupted and cruelly destroyed by hands of a devil who wore a brown cape embroidered in gold.

Rosa looks back, the school-girl confused. "What's wrong, Beatrice?"

Beatrice looks right at the eyes of the girl, and realizes something.

Though the girl herself was, for now, a typical sweet child, the girl's brown orbs held in a certain fire that, years from now, would turn into a flame full of hatred and resentment and viciousness.

Those were the same exact emotions that the man with calloused hands, who took great joy in ruining Beatrice's fantasies about the red-haired prince, exhibited those many years ago.

Beatrice takes oblivious steps back. "Child...you..._you..._"

Rosa walks forwards. "What's wrong, Beatrice?"

Beatrice is silent and still, for a few seconds. She didn't want to do this, didn't want to corrupt this girl's image of her father (if Rosa wasn't also a victim that is,) she really didn't.

Beatrice, however, has to know. Has to stop herself from being thrown back into those days where she's laying unto the floor and she's crying and pleading and wishing her prince would come and save her already please _helphelphelphelp—_

Beatrice coughs before she brings her fist to her mouth and mumbles a "Excuse me," and then the blue-eyed female finally speaks up.

"What is your father's name?"

"...Kinzo?"

Beatrice frowns. She didn't want to do this, didn't want to leave the child, but Beatrice cannot go back to...that man.

"I...see. Rosa, I will meet with your father some other time," Beatrice says as she takes a step back. In confusion, Rosa slightly cocks her head to the side.

"Why not? This is a good opportunity, Beatrice!"

"I just...I just _can't, _little one. I'm deeply sorry."

"Miss. Beatrice, just try to meet him! I can tell you and him would get along _so well, Beatrice!_"

"N-No...child, I..._I...I just cannot..._"

Rosa takes a few steps towards. Beatrice takes a few steps backwards. The seagulls are laughing above and butterflies seem to of swarm around the place.

The air is too musty, the ocean's waves are like dying notes to Beatrice's ears, bugs have gotten off the tip of grass to bite at her ankles, and Beatrice feels like she's about to throw up nibbled on jasmine leaves and dissolved ice-cubes out of her system.

Suddenly, Rosa's soft little hands have turned into rough long ones. and Beatrice shakes because the hands are extending to her and _oh god father it hurtshurtshurtshurts—_

"No! Leave me be! Don't come any closer! _Please!_"

"Miss B-Beatrice," Rosa stutters out as she takes more steps forward, "_d-d-don't—_"

Before Beatrice realizes it, her left foot that has been dangling on the cliff edge became one with the air, as well as the rest of Beatrice.

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**v.**

It was strange, dying. The seagulls continuing to mock her from the sky above. Butterflies came zooming down and fluttering around her, their golden wings making her look as if she were controlling them to go under her as a cushion.

Beatrice is falling. One of her slippers has fallen off, and some of Beatrice's golden hair has become undone from the braids on the back of her head.

Her dress is already with the ends ceased and wrinkled and slightly ripped, due to the pressure from the air.

Beatrice feels cold. Her slipper-less feet momentarily touched the cliff and a gash of red slowly swirled out like a ribbon, and it makes Beatrice then feel as if she were with a fever.

She looks up, her blue eyes catching the horrified stare of Rosa. Beatrice screams without any sound coming out. She lifts her left hand up, trying and failing to grasp at any branches that stick out of the cliff she fell off of.

Beatrice...Beatrice **hates** it. She hates that she is falling and falling _and falling and fallingfallingfallingfalling _and she stayed forever trapped near the clutches of Kuwadorian—trapped from seeing _him_ in his white outfit, ready to rescue and take her off this lonely, lonely island...

...

At the very least, Beatrice got to meet another human, do a little more than roam only around the perimeters of her so human-deprived mansion, and made sure she died remembering who..._Kinzo_ was.

Although she was disgusted about what he did...although she wished to erase and eradicate those terrible, _terribleterrible**terrible**_ memories of Kinzo...in a way, she was somewhat thankful that the truth was revealed.

Someone like Beatrice, after all, would die with that name in mind and would reincarnate with the purpose to enact revenge. Perfect.

_(At least, she _tells_ herself it's "perfect.")_

Right before she touches the ground, Beatrice dreams as she tries to ignore the waterworks that falls from her eyes and down her cheeks. Yes, she dreams.

She dreams of the world where the air is fresh, grass is surrounded with flowers of all shapes and sizes, water is around but not in a overwhelming fashion (and also not rolling down her _oh-so-thin _cheeks,) and where Beatrice has a fiery sense of willpower inside of her.

Those dreams? Wonderful. Sensational. Almost real—no, _are_ real. They just exist in another lifeline.

That is why, before she dies, as Beatrice rises her hands up and is screaming and shouting—oh, _why has the Lord forsaken her?—_she once again envisions the long-awaited scenario where her prince is waiting, his hair red and eyes bluish-gray.

As Beatrice sees herself being helped unto the white stallion of her prince, she's elated as she realizes that she's finally able to soon see a world where she can be in a white dress when she gets married to her prince.

She cups the air around her. Feels her body hit the ground below. Hears the wave of the water twenty or so feet away. The fire that was once in her stomach has reached her own body.

(...And Beatrice smiles as her conscious goes black, not feeling any of the blood that came out of her but, instead, thinking about the new tales her prince will tell her and the stories she'll tell him, as her red-haired beloved rides with her to the sun high above...)

_[Un vestito bianco puo finalmente essere indossato.]_

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**My final fic for this summer fic challenge of mines and I'm proud. This summer challenge was fun. Till next time!**


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